


Waiting for the Sun to Rise

by skarlatha



Category: The Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead RPF
Genre: Bottom!Norman, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Polyamory, Social Media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:36:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4960885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skarlatha/pseuds/skarlatha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years of Norman pushing for it, it’s finally happening--the writers have decided to get Rick and Daryl together! But on the day they’re filming the very first Rickyl scene, Norman finds that he’s a little off his game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting for the Sun to Rise

**Author's Note:**

> I have tagged this as Rickyl because it _does_ depict a relationship between Rick and Daryl (and not just between the actors playing them), but be forewarned: this is primarily a Leedus fic, and if you're not into Leedus then you won't like the Rickyl parts either. 
> 
> Massive thanks to [TWDObsessive](http://archiveofourown.org/users/twdobsessive) (who has now risen to the level of Official Beta from Cheerleader, don’t argue, just accept your new role)! Also thanks to the rest of the Rickyl Writer’s Group for being super encouraging while I worked on this. 
> 
> Title is from “Superstar” by Broods.

The building they’re in is little more than a shed, if it could even be called that. The boards are rough and old and they’re already creaking under the weight of a dozen walkers that are pressing against the door, clawing at the cracks around the frame and trying to get inside. Daryl crosses the small space and rubs the dingy window with his shop rag, peers through it into the forest outside.

“More comin’, Rick,” he says, quiet and sandpaper-rough. “We gotta go.”

Rick hooks his thumbs in his belt loops and looks down at the floor for a few seconds before widening his eyes and shrugging, looking back up without lifting his head. “We won’t make it,” he says. “There’s twelve of ‘em outside. We can’t make it through that, not when they’re all pressed together on the only exit.”

“I know.” Daryl sighs and keeps staring out the window. “But there’s fifty more comin’. If we’ve got any chance at all, it’s now.”

Rick shakes his head, then straightens up and pulls out his Colt, checks the bullets. Daryl glances back over to count them himself, even though he knows how many there are, knows they won’t do shit to save either of them. Rick’s got five bullets and there are twelve walkers and Daryl’s crossbow ain’t worth shit in close quarters like this, so it’ll be knives all the way. Daryl sighs and tightens the strap on his bow so it at least won’t be in the way, then fingers the hilt of his hunting knife and is just about to draw it when Rick says his name, very softly.

Daryl knows what it means. He’s always known what it meant, from the night he killed Dale if not before that, maybe since the first time he ever saw this man, ever threw squirrels in his face and tried to stab him. And it’s all been creeping closer and closer but never quite getting there, never crossing the line, and now here, at what very well could be the end of the road… well, this is the line, isn’t it? And god knows Daryl wants it, wants it at least as much as Rick does if not more, so he slowly turns around and then Rick’s hands are on his biceps, pushing him against the rickety wall of the shack, and their eyes meet for just a moment before Rick’s eyes flick down to his lips and Norman shivers and turns his head.

“Line!” he yells, and Andy groans and steps back, rubbing a hand on his face and smearing the fake blood and dirt that makeup had spent so long applying.

“For fuck’s sake, Norman, you don’t _have_ a line,” Greg yells from behind the camera setup, his words ringing above the din of twelve extras and a whole slew of crew members muttering _come on_ and _not again_ and _fuckin’ actors_. “Reset, everybody. We gotta get this scene before we can break for lunch.”

Andy puts his hands on his hips again, still more _Rick_ than _Andrew_ since he doesn’t drop character easily, and glares at Norman. “What’s your problem today?” he asks, his voice an odd mix of British lilt and Southern drawl that never fails to make Norman’s knees go weak when he hears it between takes. “This isn’t like you.”

Norman swallows and straightens his leather vest. “Need a cigarette,” he mumbles, then pushes his way out of the shack and heads for a tree that’s a little farther away from the activity of the set. He leans against the tree and lights a cigarette, staring at his feet as he smokes, trying to ignore the way Andy’s body moves in his peripheral vision as he walks over to the fight choreographer and starts practicing the walker fight in the next scene.

“Alright,” Greg says from behind him, “what’s wrong?”

The producer--and director, for this episode at least--rounds the tree and looks at Norman, who refuses to look back at him. “Nothing’s wrong,” Norman murmurs. “Just an off day, that’s all.”

“Bullshit,” Greg says, putting his hands on his hips. “That scene you did with Danai earlier was spot-on. You’re on your game today. Except right now. Except this scene. So spill.”

Norman sighs and takes another drag from his cigarette. “Just don’t feel right,” he says, using his Daryl voice.

“Don’t give me that,” Greg snaps. “You’ve been lobbying for this since your first day on the set. Rick and Daryl, soulmates, you said. You made me and Andy and Robert and who knows who all else read so much Rickyl fanfiction that I can quote passages from it, and that one fanart of you guys fucking in the prison showers is pretty much burned into my retinas at this point. And if you tell me now, after all the effort we put into selling this to the network and the other producers and Kirkman and God Himself, that you don’t want to do it, I will go full Rick Grimes on you and bite out your throat myself.”

Norman chuckles slightly and puts the cigarette back in his mouth, draws the smoke in and holds it in his lungs for several seconds before puffing it out in a ring. “I can do it,” he says, sliding his eyes back over to Andy, watching as the other man hits the ground and rolls onto his back, kicking at the extra he’s fighting in slow motion and then glancing at the choreographer for approval. “Just need to get my head on straight.”

“Don’t do anything _straight_ ,” Greg says. “Get your head on gay, if anything. That’s how you’ve been playing Daryl all along, right?”

Norman snorts and drops his cigarette on the ground, stomps it out with the toe of his boot. “Yeah.”

“Then go in there and let him kiss the hell out of Rick.” Greg claps him on the shoulder. “Okay?”

“He’ll know,” Norman says, very quietly, and he flicks his eyes back to Andy quickly before locking gazes with Greg. “He’ll _know_. I’m not that good of an actor.”

“He’ll know what?”

Norman scoffs again and pushes away from the tree. “That I…” He trails off, runs his hand through his hair. “Never mind. Let’s go back.”

Greg blinks. “Norm--”

“Let’s just get this shit over with, okay?” Norman shakes out his shoulders and then nods. “I can do this. This is acting. It’s what I do.”

Greg eyes him suspiciously. “Okay. If you’re sure you’re ready…”

“I’m sure,” Norman says, then stomps off back toward the set. Andy sees him coming and falls into step beside him, heading back to the shack.

“If it helps,” Andy murmurs, a tiny smile lighting his face, “you can imagine I’m Alan Rickman.”

Norman laughs at that despite himself and shoulder-bumps Andy as they step back into the small set. “I don’t know, man, he smelled better than you do right now.”

Andy rolls his eyes but takes his position. “I smell fine. The dirt’s just makeup, you know.”

“Yeah, makeup and hundred-degree swamp sweat,” Norman mutters. “But point taken. Let’s do this.”

Greg calls the scene to action, and Norman watches in never-ending awe at how _Rick Grimes_ just cascades into Andy’s face, at how different Andy is from his character, at the sheer _talent_ that the man across from him just exudes in every single scene he’s in. Norman blinks and turns, rubs the re-applied dirt from the window again.

“More comin’, Rick. We gotta go.”  

“We won’t make it. There’s twelve of ‘em outside. We can’t make it through that, not when they’re all pressed together on the only exit.”

“I know that. But there’s fifty more comin’. If we’ve got any chance at all, it’s now.”

“Daryl.”

And then there are hands on his skin, his back pressing against the wall, and Andy’s eyes are on his lips and Norman shivers again, licking them in anticipation, and then…

Well, they haven’t exactly talked about how the kiss would go, wanting to keep it spontaneous and organic rather than rehearsed. The script calls it passionate and desperate and Norman understands that, had spent days steeling himself for it. But he hadn’t quite steeled himself for _this_ , for the feather-light brush of lips against lips, for the way the other man breathes against his mouth, for the hand cupping his cheek. It’s exactly the kiss Daryl would want from Rick, but more to the point, it’s exactly the kiss _Norman’s_ been waiting for from Andy, the kiss he might have been waiting his entire life for, and he moans softly and opens his mouth, lets Andy dive inside and kiss him, all fire and smoke and mint-flavored tongue, and he clutches at Andy’s shirt and gives back with everything in him, because how could he not?

It only lasts a few seconds and then Andy pulls back, leans his forehead against Norman’s and whispers, “I love you, Daryl,” and Norman sighs and puts his hand on the back of Andy’s head, closes his eyes. “God, Rick, I love you too,” he murmurs, and it’s not until the set goes thunderously quiet that he realizes his mistake.

Because he hadn’t said _Rick_. He’d said _Andy_.

“It’s okay,” Greg calls out after a moment. “We’ll fix that in post. Good job, guys. Let’s break for lunch.” The cast and crew all burst into action, moving a little too briskly and talking a little too loudly, and Norman winces as he sees all the smartphones appearing out of nowhere, the sky-blue of Twitter lighting up all over the set.

“Norman,” Andrew says, but Norman shakes his head and pushes him away.

“Sorry, man. Don’t know what came over me.” He tries to shove his way out of the shack but Andy holds on to his arm. “Really, Andy, it’s nothing, okay?”

“I need to make a phone call,” Andy says, his British accent coming back in full force, with nothing of the in-character drawl in it anymore. “And then we should talk. Alright?”

“Yeah,” Norman agrees, more to be able to get away than in actual agreement. “Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll be in my trailer, dying slowly of embarrassment.” He jerks his arm out of Andy’s grip and flees.

//

It’s about an hour later, and Norman is lying in the bed in his trailer staring blankly at his Twitter app and trying to figure out what the hell to say to quash the rumors that are already swirling. There had only been a few stray tweets about it when he’d gotten in the shower to rinse the Daryl off of himself, and by the time he’d finished and toweled himself off, there were _hundreds_ of them, and the number is still growing while he watches. He flips over to Tumblr, checks the Rickyl tag which is absolutely exploding, then bites his lip and checks the Leedus tag too.  

Also exploding, both in delight from the shippers and pure rage from the anti-shippers. _What about Gael?_ they’re asking, calling Norman a homewrecker, long rants about infidelity and selfishness, well-reasoned arguments about how wrong it all is, how Norman never stopped to think about how this would affect Andy’s wife, Andy’s _family_.

Only he had. God knows he had. If he hadn’t stopped to think about that, or if he’d thought about it and decided he didn’t care, he would have jumped the man’s bones years ago. Today was a mistake. An honest mistake, and he’ll tell Andy that, apologize profusely, maybe even send Gael a “sorry I’m in love with your husband” fruit basket along with a note explaining that it will never happen again.

The confessions, not the love itself. There’s not a whole lot Norman can do about _that._ If he could, he would have done it by now. But he can at least promise not to _say_ anything about it again.

There’s a tap on the door and then Andy lets himself in, poking his head in the door to make sure Norman is actually inside before walking in and closing the door behind himself. He’s clean now too, his hair still slightly damp, and Norman tries desperately to ignore the spike of lust that a freshly-showered Andy (and a sweaty Andy, and a bearded Andy, and hell, even a re-run of that episode where Rick killed a guy with a machete, and don’t even get him started on that episode of _Teachers_ where Andy’s ass is on screen in all its glory) always sends through him.

Andy raises his eyebrows and lets the corner of his mouth curve up into a half-smile. “What a day, right?”

“Andy,” Norman says, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “I am _so fucking sorry_ about that. I shouldn’t have said anything. It was stupid of me and we can just forget it. Nothing happened.”

“The Tumbler thinks otherwise, from what Gael tells me,” Andy says, smiling with twinkling eyes.

“Oh, _fuck_. You told Gael,” Norman moans, then flops back down and pulls a pillow over his head, trying to estimate how long a flight from England to Georgia will take and what weapon Gael will most likely choose to kill him with.

“Of course I told her. She’s my wife,” Andy says, then Norman feels the bed dip as Andy sits down on the edge of it. “Besides, I promised her years ago when we opened up our marriage that I’d tell her immediately if anything happened. Communication is important.”

Norman freezes, then very slowly pulls the pillow away from one eye and peers at Andrew, trying desperately to tamp down the little flare of hope that’s springing up in his chest. “Wait.”

“Open marriage, yes,” Andy says, smiling so hard that Norman wants to smack him for being a jackass. “Polyamory. Ethical non-monogamy. Whatever the kids are calling it now. I can love anyone I want as long as I don’t forget about Gael. And as long as I’m open with her about it. It’s worked out well so far. She has a boyfriend, been together for three years. And she and I are still happy together. So that’s why I called her just now. To tell her what happened.”

“To tell her what a fucking dumbass I am, you mean?”

Andy chuckles. “No, to tell her what a fucking dumbass _I_ am. For not seeing it sooner.”

“Holy shit,” Norman says, tossing the pillow aside and rubbing a hand down his face hard, as if the pressure on his skin would help any of this make more sense. “Why the hell didn’t you ever say anything?”

Andy’s smile drops and he meets Norman’s eyes. “Our arrangement is for polyamory, not just… sleeping around. Real relationships, not just casual sex. And I wasn’t sure if you wanted something besides just licking me whenever you want.”

Norman blinks. “Jesus, Andy. I’ve been head over heels for you for _years_. It’s not just about licking you.” He pauses, tilts his head. “Although I’m not going to lie to you--I’m probably still going to lick you a lot.”

Andy rolls his eyes but his smile creeps back onto his face. “I would expect nothing less.”

Norman just barely resists the urge to reach for Andy and immediately start in on licking everything he’s ever wanted to put his tongue on but hasn’t had the permission to lick. But it’s important to understand _exactly_ what Andy is saying, exactly what the boundaries will be, so he doesn’t stop there. “So just to be totally clear, this open marriage thing means you can love other people, like… emotionally only?” Norman asks, telling his pounding heart to calm down so he can continue his question. “Like…” He pauses, puts on his best Rick-imitation voice. “‘You’re my brother’?”

Andy laughs softly at that. “I mean it that way about as much as Rick did. So no, Norm. Physical love is on the table as well.”

Norman sits up again, very slowly, as the hours upon hours of fantasies he’s had about this man crash in on his thoughts and funnel straight down into his cock. “You better not be fucking with me.”

“Not _with_ you, no,” Andy says, full-on grinning at this point.

Norman swats at him, then leaves his hand on Andy’s arm. “So we can... do this.”

“We can,” Andy says, and he runs his fingers over Norman’s cheek and then leans in for a kiss.

But Norman turns his head again before their lips make contact, and Andrew pulls back a bit, frowning. “Norman,” he starts, but Norm shakes his head and meets Andy’s gorgeous blue eyes.

“ _Nothing_ about this is going to be casual,” he says softly. “It’s not going to be a trial run. Not for me. So if you’re not all in, I don’t want to do this, because if it doesn’t work out then it’s gonna break my fuckin’ heart.”

“Mine too,” Andy replies, his eyes filled with sincerity, with truth.

But still, there’s too much at stake to be anything less than absolutely certain, so Norman plows forward. “I mean it, Andy. You kiss me right now and I’m gonna go from zero to ninety in three seconds flat. And I am one clingy motherfucker, man. Are you sure you’re okay with that?”

“As long as you’re comfortable sharing me with Gael, then yes,” Andy says, then picks up Norman’s hand and kisses it. “Besides, you’re already clingy. I’ve gotten quite used to it.”

Norman chuckles breathlessly. “Man, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” He laces his fingers in with Andy’s and then tugs, pulling the man closer to him. “Alright. Okay. Then we’re doing this.”

Andy puts his hand on the side of Norman’s neck and leans forward, brushing his lips against Norman’s cheek before sliding their faces together, his mouth close to Norman’s ear. “Can I kiss you, then?” he murmurs, and a full-body shiver rushes through Norman’s nerve endings at the sound of it, of Andy’s perfect British accent right there in his ear, low and laced with sex.

Norman opens his mouth to respond but his voice fails him, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah. Kiss me.”

So Andy pulls back away from Norman’s ear, the stubble on their cheeks catching as he moves his head, and then Norman has just a moment to think _oh my god, I’m about to kiss Andrew Fucking Clutterbuck_ before it’s happening, Andy’s lips on his like the first day of summer and Norman gasps at the sensation, at how fucking _right_ it feels and then skips right past any hesitation, any tentative motions, because this is his Andy and he doesn’t have to be afraid.

His Andy. _His_ Andy. Fuckin’ _finally_.

Norman keeps his hold on Andrew’s fingers with one hand and lifts the other to Andy’s hair, tangling his fingers in the slightly-damp curls. He loses himself in the kiss, in the flawless slide of lips and tongue and in the way that Andy’s mouth tastes, still minty as it had been in the scene but now flavored with a hint of smoke, and Norman moans as he thinks of the cigarette breaks between scenes from now on, imagines Andy taking a drag from Norman’s own cigarette and then kissing him, breathing the smoke down into Norman’s own lungs like they’re sharing life and death and everything in between, and fuck if that doesn’t turn him on even more than he already is.

Norman lies back down in the bed slowly, grabbing the front of Andy’s shirt and pulling the other man down with him, and Andy crawls over him and keeps kissing, breaking the kiss every few seconds to place his lips elsewhere, light kisses on Norman’s cheeks and eyelids and nose at first, then harder, hungrier kisses on his throat and collarbone, teeth and tongue adding to the chaste lip motions from before.

“You gonna fuck me?” Norman asks, breathless and rough, deep like Daryl but without the country drawl to it, and Andrew responds by grabbing Norman’s t-shirt and whipping it off over the man’s head.

“ _Hard_ ,” he purrs into Norman’s ear, and Norman moans and gets to work on unbuttoning Andy’s shirt. Andy leans up to pull his own shirt off without bothering with the rest of the buttons, but Norman clamps his hand over Andy’s and stops him.

“Want to unwrap you,” Norman says, looking into Andy’s crystal-blue eyes and licking his lips. “Best birthday present I ever got.”

Andy rolls his eyes. “It’s August.”

“Yeah, I know,” Norman says, unbuttoning the top button and sliding his eyes down to gaze at the skin he’s exposed.

“Your birthday is in January,” Andy points out, raising an eyebrow.

“I accept birthday presents year-round, though,” Norman says, then unbuttons another one and lets out a shuddering breath. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters.

Andy chuckles a bit and re-adjusts his position, straddling Norman’s lap and then rolling his hips down so that their cocks press together, and Norman hisses “motherfucker” and jerks his own hips upward, chasing the friction and slipping open two more buttons in rapid succession.

Andy keeps rocking his hips very gently while Norman’s increasingly-unsteady hands work on his buttons, and finally they’re all undone and Norman pushes the fabric aside and locks his eyes on Andy’s chest, running his fingers over it and thanking every god he can think of that the Powers that Be hadn’t demanded that Andy wax it again, because this--the hairy chest and the Season 3-style facial hair and the raw fucking masculinity before him--this is what God must have meant when he formed man in his image, because Andrew is a goddamn masterpiece.

He wants to say that, wants to tell Andy how the man’s body would have reduced Michelangelo to tears, but he’s never been good at pushing those sorts of words from his brain past the filter to his mouth and so instead he just stares up into Andy’s eyes and groans the much-less-eloquent “I’m gonna come in my pants if you don’t fuck me right now.”

Andrew smiles and shrugs his open shirt off, then moves away from Norman and stands up to remove his pants. Norman locks his eyes on Andy’s hands as they pull on the zipper of his jeans, and he feels his pupils dilate and his eyes go wide as Andy pushes his jeans and underwear down and his cock slips into view, long and hard and just perfect, curving upward toward Andy’s stomach and Norman’s own cock gives a twitch at the sight of it. He shoves his own pants down, hissing softly as the waistband drags hard over his sensitive skin, but at this point, with Andrew’s cock directly in his line of sight, he really can’t be bothered with things like unfastening his belt or unbuttoning his jeans.

Andy kicks off his shoes and pants and turns around, reaching into Norman’s “private drawer” and pulling out a bottle of lube and a condom packet. He tosses the bottle to Norman and then reaches down and strokes his own cock a couple of times, and Norman quickly slicks up his fingers and gets to work while he watches the unspeakably sexy action of Andrew rolling a condom onto himself with aching, teasing slowness. Norman’s hand is shaking when he slides the first finger into himself, eyes still locked on Andy’s cock, and he’s never been nervous like this before with anyone else. But then again, nobody else has ever meant this much, and he seriously doubts anyone ever will again.

And then finally the condom is on, and Norman nods at Andy’s questioning look. Andy climbs back over Norman on the narrow bed, nudging Norman’s knees apart and settling between his thighs. He leans over him and their mouths meet again, desperate and heated, and Norman lifts his free hand and rakes his nails down Andy’s back, causing Andy to moan and jerk forward, and Norman tightens his legs around Andy’s waist and slowly withdraws his hand. “I’m ready. Fuck me.”

Andy curses under his breath, something Norman doesn’t exactly catch but that sounds incredibly _British_ , and then reaches down and positions himself. He flicks his eyes back up to Norman’s and leaves them there, and they hold each others’ gaze like puzzle pieces while Andy slides forward into him, the delicious sting fading into a dull ache of pleasure as Norman’s body adjusts to finding its other half. When he’s fully seated inside Norman, Andy lets out a long, ragged breath and reaches down to wrap his fingers around Norman’s straining dick.

“No,” Norman chokes out, grabbing Andy’s wrist and pulling it out of the danger zone. “I don’t want to come yet.” He wriggles his hips, moaning at both the sparkles at the edge of his vision when Andy’s thick cock drags against his prostate and at the way Andy’s eyes go dark at the motion. “Come on, Andy. Fuck me.”

Andy nods, holding on to Norman’s knees as he pulls almost all the way out and then, with a clench of his abdominal muscles that Norman is sure could get the man arrested in at least twelve states, slams back inside. Norman _screams_ at that, at the unbelievable pleasure of finally getting absolutely railed by the man that he’s sure is the one great love of his life, and he doesn’t even have time to get his brain back online before Andy starts thrusting, hard and fast and so incredibly deep that Norman finally understands the phrase “fucking his brains out” because that’s what it feels like, like Andy is filling every inch of his body and claiming each individual atom of it as his own.

And Andy must be feeling it too, because the look in his eyes when Norman meets them again isn’t just lust. It definitely _is_ lust, just not _entirely_ so. It’s also deep affection, trust, love. It’s home and comfort and friendship and romance, the meeting of souls, the rest of their lives, and Norman knows that his own eyes must be a mirror of that, a perfect copy of Andrew’s only a slightly different shade of blue. And so he smiles--a soft, genuine Sunday-afternoon sort of smile that really should be out of place in the space between near-brutal thrusts but somehow fits perfectly with them. He lifts his hand to Andy’s cheek and murmurs, “Andy.”

Andrew doesn’t stop thrusting, doesn’t even slow down or let the movements turn gentle, but he smiles back, the same butter-soft smile of contentment, and whispers, “Norman,” and that’s all it takes for Norman to fall over the edge from uncertainty and caution straight into full-on devotion. _Zero to ninety_ , he thinks, and so he opens his mouth and says, “I’m yours.”

Andy does slow down then, lifting his own hand and putting it to Norman’s cheek in a mirror-image of what Norman is doing to him. “I’m yours too, love,” he breathes, then gradually starts speeding up again. “Come for me, darling. Let me see what it’s like.”

Norman takes a breath to ask Andy to touch him, but the other man knows what he needs before he says it. Andy’s fingers wrap around Norman’s cock and he strokes it quickly, in rhythm with his thrusts, and it vaguely registers in Norman’s brain that he should really try to hold out a little longer but his dick has other ideas. Andy slams back inside one more time, hitting Norman’s prostate just right, and Norman’s back arches off the bed involuntarily and he yells again, probably Andy’s name this time, hoarse and desperate and then he’s coming hard, streaks of white splashing against Andy’s chest as the other man leans over him and keeps pounding, both of them breathing heavily and Norman’s fingernails digging into Andy’s biceps.

When Norman sags back against the bed, boneless and spent, Andy leans farther over him and kisses him hard as he keeps rocking into Norman, chasing his own release. He drags his lips down to Norman’s neck and sucks hard, marking Norman and raking his teeth over the skin there, and then with another few thrusts he’s finishing too, his whole body shaking with the force of it, and Norman wraps his arms around Andy’s neck and holds him through the orgasm, murmuring _yes_ into his ear while Andy catches his breath.

It’s a few seconds before they pull apart, and Norman’s come smeared between them sticks to their skin and makes them both chuckle, Andy with a twinkle in his eye and Norm with a very slight blush on his cheeks that he will deny until the day he dies. “How long until they need us on set?” Andy asks, and Norman swats at him, wincing slightly as he feels Andy slipping out of his body.

“Don’t give the slightest fuck,” Norman says. “Not even a little one. I mean, take a look around this trailer and see if you can count all the fucks I give.”

Andy laughs and kisses him again, and Norman smiles and lets him, and in that moment not even the pounding on the door from whoever’s been sent to fetch them can make them break apart.

//

Daryl crouches behind the abandoned car and peers down the empty road. “Think we lost ‘em,” he rumbles after a moment. “I can’t believe we made it outta there, man.”

Rick stands up and cracks his neck, then holds out his hand and helps Daryl stand too. They’re both far filthier than they’d been in the shack, covered in blood and dirt and guts, and Daryl reaches up and brushes a chunk of decomposed flesh off of Rick’s shoulder. Silence falls between them and Daryl starts to drop his hand away, but Rick reaches up and catches it before it falls.

“I still want this,” Rick rumbles, ducking his head to force Daryl to make eye contact with him. “It wasn’t just because I thought we were gonna die.”

Daryl swallows and bites his lip. “You sure? ‘Cause--”

Rick grins and kisses him again, backing him up against the car and tangling both hands in Daryl’s hair, and when he pulls back, Daryl stares at him with equal parts disbelief and joy. “I’m sure,” Rick says.

Daryl grunts awkwardly and pats Rick’s shoulder. “I love you, Rick.”

And Andy smiles and says, “I love you too, Norman.”

The sky-blue of Twitter lights up the set again and Greg groans and buries his face in his hands, muttering about the poor post production crew and how much extra work there’s going to be for them after all this bullshit, and Norman grabs Andy’s hand and drags him back toward the trailer as the rest of the world keeps spinning.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://skarlatha.tumblr.com)!


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